If laughter really is,

in fact,

the best medicine,

then why has it never been there

for me?

When I scraped my knee,

flying off of the monkey bars in

kindergarten,

it was neosporin that was the best.

Or the time in 6th grade

when I messed up,

talking about her behind her back,

leaving her sobbing on the field.

I didn’t laugh, in fact,

I screamed.

My rage ricocheting off of the walls

until I was left with only

regret. 

It was an apology that was the problem solver.

And now,

when anxiety gained control of my body,

rearranging my brain into lies,

commanding me to do as told,

It was my family that cared for me.

It was my family that told me to breathe.

It was my family that told me I would be

okay.

I didn’t laugh, in fact,

I deteriorated.

My mind a jungle of deceptions and false truths.

But family was there,

trying hard to save me from 

myself,

and they made it better.

So,

to those who say laughter is the

“best medicine”,

Is it?